


Everything, and then nothing

by Northerlywind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Old Age, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northerlywind/pseuds/Northerlywind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years, and Sherlock still hasn't returned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything, and then nothing

Switzerland. 

John will come to hate that word.

It’s only when he’s heaped over the edge of the falls, clinging with the barest of grasps to the rough soil under his fingertips, that he buries himself deeper and deeper. His head is bowed low to the ground, so that wisps of water alight on his cheeks, but he doesn’t notice. The falls is brisk, sharp on his olfactory senses, mixing with the crude, bitterness of the rocks. His fingernails scratch on brittle surface, clawing at the ground, as if to dig his own grave and throw himself there. 

Then he’s pulled away.

Shaking his head, he stumbles forward, to join _him_ in the deepest and blackest of voids. His hand reaches out and draws on nothingness; his jumper tears, leaving a long gash on his forearm. He realizes none of this, instead pushing forwards, onwards, down. He’s crying now, his heart aching with the immensity of a thousand, thrumming violin strings, but he is pulled away.

 _Not yet_ , someone whispers.

He closes his eyes, and feels himself lifted upwards, back, away. 

 _Yes,_ he insists, _now_.

The cries of the officers behind him grow alarmingly quiet

 _Bitte,_

He has yet to taste the salty tears on his tongue

 _bitte,_

Thick streams of blood empty in his wake

 _bitte-_

 

 

John opens his eyes to the sharp pierce of the sun - hot, uncomfortable on his worn, tired skin. He wakes up, fully, as always with a sigh of regret, longing, the past. He lifts himself out of his bed with difficulty, sickly bones sticking out from every surface. He takes a deep breath, cut short, rattling his frail lungs. His chest aches, heart atrophied from disuse and he puts a small hand on the wall, painting seismic strokes. It shakes, slips. He lets it down, rests it quiveringly on his leg. 

He looks up, his eyes deep, melancholic wells. He is old and tired, hair all gray. 

He cannot go on. A woman enters the room, all soothing empty words, consolations. He’s put back into his bed, closing the drapes on a window bolted shut (of course). His hand is like a disjointed appendage by his side, reminding him that the world, violently, continues (even if he doesn’t). He closes his eyes and forgets to think.

(it doesn’t work)

He dreams of Sherlock that night, so faintly that he wonders if it had all been a dream itself, a figment of his imagination. Two years in many, so long ago. He can no longer remember his features, only his presence (even that is slipping away).

 _goodbye_ , someone whispers, 

disappears.

 

 

John has been to enough funerals in his lifetime that it no longer warrants the stiffeningly sombre occasion it is. _Mum and Dad. Sherlock. Bill. Mrs. Hudson. Sally. Mike._ And now Harry. His shoulder numbly aches, reminding him, warning him. He stays silent, still, as the rain turns from trickles to torrents. He stays in his chair, unnoticed. The water drains him, washes him away, until he is but a dull speck in the distance. Then that, too, is swept away into nothingness. He’s reduced to a shivering emptiness, until someone finally finds him, crumpled on the ground. He tastes rainwater.

He doesn’t die then.

 

 

He opens a Word file.

The cursor blinks.

He stares at the screen.

He has nothing to say, and no one to say it to regardless.

The pills clatter to the floor, roll under the bed. 

His leg hurts, but he lowers himself to the ground.

The pills burn like shame on his tongue. 

 

He doesn’t die then, either.

 

 

He’s on a bridge, creaking. The Thames quietly thrums beneath him. He looks into the darkness, squints, reflects. He leans heavily on his rails. His coat hangs loosely off his shoulders. He shivers, despite everything, a human response. It’s so out of place that he stops, for a moment, just to hear him say-

He stands, absolutely still but for the ceaseless tremble of his weak hand. His fingers tingle, twitch. He puts down his cane, almost gently. He, painfully, climbs over the side. His leg nearly betrays him then. He clenches his teeth, tasting blood (too familiar), wrenches himself over the rail. Please. It has to be now. He’s shaking, his whole body noiselessly engaged in his awful tremor, clattering against the rail. He grips the side with all the strength he has left. His tears, finally, release in ragged breaths. His clasp wavers. He closes his eyes.

He lets himself fall.

The Thames welcomes him in its arms, as it always had, and the voice is silent.

 

 

He knows where he is. He’s seen it before, but he can’t seem to place it. He opens his eyes, to a sea of blue - breath, catching in his throat. His heart beats, stammering, with renewal. He wanders, onwards. Everything is clear, pure, different. He knows where he is, though he also doesn’t. A bridge, pristine, appears before him. Water, rushing past him, as if eager to slip away. John steps forward, stops suddenly, chokes. Then he sees. In front of him. A silhouette, but still so much younger, so much more real than he had ever known him as. It’s too perfect, and he realizes. 

John walks past, almost wading, through, forwards, gently pushing the water around him. He reaches the figure. He looks at him, or lack thereof. There is nothing he can see here, but he knows where he is, whom he’s looking at. He knows with every aching memory. He reaches out his hands, curiously, cautiously. The figures shrinks away. His heart breaks.

 _You shouldn’t be here_ , he hears, in front of him and everywhere around him. _You don’t belong here_.

He opens his mouth, voice heavily, thick, cracked with disuse, and he thinks, _I belong with you._

The water, still, moves around them, making smooth figure eights. But it is so empty, so lonely here. John, with each passing second, feels less of himself, and more of nothing at all. It’s too much for him, and he knows now that this is not his place. He looks around, desperately hoping to affirm his long-gone memory, piecing together the smallest fragments one by one by one, while he can. 

He takes a breath, the water lingering, rising to meet his words, lapping at the fringes of him. An imperceptible, solemn, shaking of the head. The figure pushes him back, and he’s lowered back in to the water. It carries him away, further to live a life not filled yet. He’s crying now, aching for that glimpse of a man he has not seen for over 40 years, but none is forthcoming. He feels himself tear away at the edges, as he drifts along the current, pulling away at him, the core of his nothingness.

 

 

“Time of death...”


End file.
